


The Nights that Never Die

by elexus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Doctor John Watson, Fluff and Crack, I'm Bad At Tagging, Injured Sherlock, M/M, Sherlock is an awkward mess, Unilock, i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-28 11:34:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15048011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elexus/pseuds/elexus
Summary: When voices are heard from John Watson's flat downstairs one night, Sherlock expects nothing but dull chatter. It's quickly proven to be quite the opposite.





	The Nights that Never Die

**Author's Note:**

> One of my New Year's resolutions for 2018 was to actually get my act together and start publishing my writing, so here I am.
> 
> Enjoy.

At precisely 8:16 AM Sherlock hears _him _exit his flat. Who _he _is, Sherlock knows just a little too well. He, or the man Sherlock knows as John Watson, lives next door, or to be more exact - underneath Sherlock, since the apartment house that is 221 Baker Street is way too small to actually fit more than one flat on each landing.____

_____ _

When John moved into the flat below Sherlock’s about two months ago, Sherlock couldn’t have cared less about him, truth be told. Based upon the hours the neighbour appeared to leave his flat, he was a student, and after hearing John’s TV play various medicine related documentaries the same week as university finals were coming up, it was safe to assume the man was a medical student. Really just an ordinary guy that goes to school, hangs out with his friends on the weekends and goes grocery shopping way too late at night. No one to waste time on, Sherlock thought. Then came a night that changed everything.

_____ _

***

_____ _

An escaped convict and a chase culminating in a dead end, resulting in a fight breaking out had become the reason behind several agonizing knife cuts on the consulting detective’s upper arms and chest. Actually, the situation was incredibly easy to explain. Sherlock Holmes had been beaten up by a criminal. In retrospect, it might have been idiotic of him to not realize that the consequences of putting up a fight with someone who is about ten times stronger than himself, and, as if that wasn’t enough, was armed to the teeth with two sharp knives _and _a knuckle duster wouldn’t be anything other than disasterous. So if Inspector MacDonald had tried to scold him for being that stupid, Sherlock hadn’t listened. Going home and taking care of his wounds was the only thing that mattered at the moment.__

_______ _ _ _

After taxi ride that had felt like an eternity, Sherlock could finally make his way into 221B’s hallway. The fresh wounds ached tremendously, and with every step he took, a throb of pain was sent through his body, making it awfully hard to move quietly through the room. His deep breaths and heavy footsteps were the complete opposite of what Sherlock needed right now, as he knew he had to be very careful not to wake up Mrs Hudson - the landlady. 

_______ _ _ _

Most of the time Sherlock was hugely grateful of Mrs Hudson’s kindness, and during the months he had been staying at Baker Street, she had become almost like a second mum to Sherlock with her constant fussing and care. On this very night though, it was a relief to come back home and realize that she’d gone to bed, because even if Sherlock appreciated how much she cared about him, the woman could undoubtedly be somewhat overprotective from time to time.

_______ _ _ _

As silently as Sherlock possibly could manage, he began climbing the stairs, avoiding all steps that he knew would make a noise, but despite his efforts, a high pitched creak was heard, causing Sherlock to jump in surprise. That was odd. He _knew _that step was safe. Sherlock closed his eyes, analyzed the sound he’d heard. No. The staircase never creaked like that. It _couldn’t _have been it. So what else could it have been? Sherlock could only think of one thing. Doors.____

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

It was impossible that Mrs Hudson would be awake at this hour, and besides, Sherlock knew she’d never creep up on him like this. If it had been her, he would’ve heard her talking long before she’d entered the hallway. No, it must’ve been someone else, and that left Sherlock with only one candidate. Slowly, he turned towards the door on the first floor that had “J. Watson” written on the label, and his theory was not to be proven wrong. 

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

There in the doorway, the silhouette of J. Watson was standing, softly illuminated by the lights inside of the flat. Sherlock couldn’t quite figure out whether the neighbour was judging him or if he was simply shocked by Sherlock’s current state, which, to be fair, was below the lowest of standards. Sherlock had seen his reflection in the cab on his way back, and knew he was not a pretty sight. 

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Are you okay?”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Watson’s voice cut like a knife through the silence that had started to become rather painful since the two men locked eyes. The neighbour was standing there, wearing a pair of grey flannel pajama pants and a navy sweatshirt. Still, he didn’t look like he’d recently woken up. 

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Um”, Sherlock began, but didn’t get the time to follow it up with a quick “I’m fine” and then proceed to move on with his life before he was interrupted by Watson.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Christ, are you bleeding? What happened? Actually, if you’ve got nothing better to do, you could come in and I’ll take care of that. I’m a medical student, so I should know what I’m doing.”, Watson replied with a short laugh. 

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

A med student? Nothing new. Watson turned out to be just as predictable as Sherlock had anticipated, and as if that wasn’t enough, the numerous beer cans and takeaway leftovers on the coffee table that Sherlock spotted when he peered into the flat hinted that people had been over recently, confirming that Watson indeed was quite a social guy. Sherlock smirked. A social med student then, just as he thought, which really meant that the invitation to come inside wasn’t that surprising at all. So with that, Sherlock limped into the flat. 

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Watson’s flat was… something. Sherlock guessed that the best way to describe it would be as an organized mess. The living room was a cluster of moving supplies that Sherlock assumed Watson just hadn’t bothered to take care of. In a corner beside the sofa, several cardboard boxes filled to the extreme with books, and what looked like winter clothing had been stuffed. Closer to the kitchen, some empty, flattened boxes were leaning against the wall, and inside the kitchen itself was a smallish table which surface seemed to be a mixture of a regular kitchen and a study zone. Still, the flat managed to make a surprisingly cozy impression with its dimmed lighting and warm colors. 

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Sorry about the mess”, John apologized as they entered the flat. “I moved in pretty recently”.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Sherlock nodded. 

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Yeah, I’ve noticed”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

_I’ve noticed. _Immediately, Sherlock cringed inwardly, instantly regretting what he’d just said. Noticing that a new neighbour had moved in and then not even bothering to say hello was probably a safe way to give off some serious I’m-a-huge-arsehole vibes, but even if Watson had thought it was a strange thing to say, he didn’t mention it. The two men stood in silence for a moment, as if both were contemplating what their next move should be, while nervously glancing around the flat.__

____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“So. Uh, if you’ll just find somewhere to sit down I’ll go get my medical kit, okay?”, Watson finally said and left the room after making a broad gesture into the lounge as an invitation for Sherlock to take a seat. 

____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Sherlock had already located an ugly blue chair standing in the corner if the room, right next to the sofa with all the boxes, and moved over there. As he was waiting, he listened to Watson opening cabinets in what he presumed was the bathroom. Seconds later the man was back in the sitting room. 

____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Sorry, by the way, I haven’t even had the time to introduce myself. John Watson”. Watson, or, well, John, reached out his hand to shake Sherlock’s. Sherlock grabbed it and gave a firm shook. 

____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Sherlock Holmes”.

____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Nodding and smiling, John opened up his medical kit and began to examine Sherlock. Something in his eyes and tone had changed, as though he’d just transformed from 2 AM John with tousled hair into the Super Serious Dr John Watson taking care of his patient. At once John’s eyes locked on Sherlock’s lower body. 

____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Alright, you’re bleeding quite violently from your waist.”

____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Without saying a word, Sherlock took off the coat he’d been wearing ever since he left his own flat earlier today. He watched as John raised his eyebrows.

____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“And from your left arm”, John added. “God, what have you been up to?”

____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

So Sherlock explained, and John listened carefully as he cleaned the wounds. He even huffed out a laugh at some of Sherlock’s half arsed attempts at jokes that would perhaps make the story sound a little less dangerous. Apart from trying to not make John too worried, the jokes also served as some strange sort of coping mechanism, because Sherlock could feel how his hands had begun to shake and his pulse become higher. As much as he hated to admit it, Sherlock knew he was nervous. Not necessarily because he cared much about what John thought of him, but rather because Sherlock had been given plenty of time to get a good look at the man while being taken cared of, and _dear God. ___

______________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

John Watson was something out of the ordinary. With his deep blue eyes, that Sherlock, despite the loathsome cliché, swore he might be drowning in, and his hair that shifted from a silver blonde to just pure gold, he was almost god-like. Never in his life had Sherlock laid his eyes upon someone this… perfect? He clenched his teeth in embarrassment. _Perfect? _Had he turned into some kind of swooning teenage girl? Sherlock would have cringed at that too if he hadn’t been distracted by John’s soothing voice, his almost glowing skin and those _lips _. Sherlock found himself unable to stop staring at them, wondering what it would be like to…____

_________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“You okay there?”

_________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

John smiled wryly at the man in front of him - a smile that faltered into something of a more nervous nature when Sherlock didn’t respond. “It’s just… You’re sort of staring.”

_________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“I’m sorry, what?”, Sherlock said, and was for a second left completely clueless to what was going on before he realized that he had, in fact, been staring. Great. As Sherlock was pulled back into reality, he also came to the unpleasant realization that this whole meeting was definitely going to make him, whose cheeks were now burning with embarrassment, come off as even more of a weirdo. 

_________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Suddenly, John’s mouth took the form of an “o”, as if he’d just come to a brilliant conclusion.

_________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Oh, I see! You’re doing that deduction thing, aren’t you? Mrs Hudson told me about it.”, he exclaimed. 

_________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Mrs Hudson? Sherlock was rendered speechless. Mrs Hudson had talked about him with John? Knowing his landlady, Sherlock was aware of the fact that she was talker. A talker that was capable of telling people _anything _, especially when it came to attractive young men that, according to her, would be perfect for Sherlock. Dear God. The more he thought about it, the more painful the ball of anxiety in his stomach grew. /p > __

____________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Um, yeah. Exactly.”, he finally lied, refusing to meet John’s eyes. 

__________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Never heard of anyone who can do something like that. What can you tell about me?”, John asked excitedly. 

__________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

At last, Sherlock was faced with a challenge that he was more than comfortable with. He swiftly began telling John about everything he’d found out since the man moved in, growing more and more relaxed as he started to get lost in his deductions. His new acquaintance listened closely as he proceeded to apply butterfly bandages to the knife cuts on Sherlock’s arm. Through the rambling, John barely said anything besides a few surprised noises whenever particularly detailed deductions were spot on. 

__________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

As Sherlock began to reach the end of his string of deductions, he could see how John was dying to say something. His mouth was slightly opened and his eyes were way more focused on Sherlock than the actual wound that he was supposed to be taking care of. However, John never got the time to say whatever he’d been planning on saying, because right as Sherlock wrapped up his long monologue, a sharp pain shot through his entire body as John’s cold fingers touched a way too sensible bruise, causing an immense and pulsating ache that made Sherlock groan in anguish.

__________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Shit! Sorry, I know it hurts.”, John yelped. “Actually, give me a second and I’ll fetch something cold for you to put on that”.

__________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

And with that, John was out of the room before Sherlock had time to object. 

__________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

By the time John was back, the moment, or whatever that had been, was over, and both men grew quiet, leaving Sherlock with plenty of time to analyze the situation while pressing a package of frozen chicken to the large bruise on his abdomen. Had John seen through Sherlock’s lie and realized the true intentions behind the staring, and if so, had that made John uncomfortable? John’s face was impossible to read. He focused entirely on taking care of the wounds now, not meeting Sherlock’s gaze at all. On second thought, John had gone terribly quiet, hadn’t he? Of course. Sherlock recognized this scenario too well. Had he gone too far with the deductions? There was always the possibility that John had become completely agitated and decided that the best solution would be to just stop everything. The conversation, the friendly looks - all of that. That’s what people did when they were uncomfortable, right? A sudden urge to do something, just _anything, _began to arise inside of Sherlock. Should he say something? That felt like the right thing to do, but what was he going to say? Small talk had never been one of his talents. How did people just know what to chat about?__

____________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Sherlock ransacked his brain for for subjects. None seemed good enough. He glanced at John, who was busying himself with carefully putting a compress on a wound on Sherlock’s hip. Perhaps John didn’t want to talk at all. Perhaps it was better to just stay quiet. Actually, yes. After evaluating the outcome of staying quiet versus making stiff small talk, the safest option was to just shut up, so that’s what he did. 

____________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Looking back at this, Sherlock regretted his decision. If he hadn’t been so stupid, then maybe he wouldn’t have gotten himself in the situation he was in now. Without intending to do so, Sherlock had found himself unable to not care about everything John did. He began to notice which hours John left his flat, what his footsteps sounded like, hell, even what sort of food John cooked. Some might have called it a “crush”, which if confronted with, Sherlock would’ve denied immediately.

____________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

***

____________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

A perk of living alone is that there’s no one around to complain when you conduct highly hazardous experiments at 3 AM. This night in particular, Sherlock is sitting at the kitchen table, which, to be honest, looks more like something you’d find in a laboratory, burning some chemicals. He’s in his own little bubble, completely absorbed with the experiment, but somehow a noise that makes Sherlock look up manages to pierce through that mental wall surrounding him. 

____________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

It’s the sound of footsteps. More importantly, footsteps that are moving into John’s flat. Sherlock’s focus is instantly changed to the noises, and after listening carefully for a few seconds he realizes that the thuds coming from the hallway are way too many and simply too different from each other to be just one person. John and a girlfriend perhaps? No, both voices sound male. So a friend. Judging by the giggling and occasionally clumsy steps, they’re probably drunk, or at least somewhat tipsy. Most likely the result of a night out. Before Sherlock has time to make any further deductions a loud fizz erupts from the experiment that’s in front of him, causing his focus to retreat to what he was doing. Getting distracted from dangerous experiments might not be such a good idea.

____________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Even though Sherlock tries his best to continue with his research, the noises coming from John’s flat won’t stop nagging at the back of his brain. It’s not any special noises at all, just muffled talking, and yet Sherlock wants to know everything. What does John like to talk about? What’s he like around his friends? The voices are coming from what seems to be just underneath Sherlock’s living room, and if only Sherlock moved in there it would be significantly easier to hear the conversation. Maybe he could sneak in there for just a minute and listen to what they’re saying. Yes, that sounds like a good idea. He’ll get up, go to the sitting room, eavesdrop on the conversation for not too long, and immediately get back to the experiment.

____________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Moments later, Sherlock has quietly snuck out of the kitchen, careful to not let John and his friend hear that someone else is awake in the house, and is now lying down on his sitting room floor. With his ear against the rug, Sherlock has just discovered another perk of living alone. You will never live in the fear of someone walking in on you when you’re spying on your neighbours at 3 AM, dressed in nothing but boxer briefs, a dressing gown, a pair of yellow plastic gloves and safety goggles. Regardless of how strange this situation may look, it works. Sherlock can without any trouble hear everything that’s going on in John’s flat. The voices go from being muffled to becoming clear as day, and immediately, Sherlock is intrigued. Before any of this, he would’ve guessed the conversation between the two friends below him would’ve had to do with something dull, like sports or girlfriends, but when Sherlock’s begins to listen, he’s proven wrong. Whatever they are discussing, it’s something above all that. 

____________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Stop laughing Greg, this is serious!”, a voice that definitely belongs to John shouts, even though he’s clearly trying his best to keep his voice down, and despite what he just said, dissolves into giggles the second he’s finished speaking. 

____________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

The other man, whose name apparently is Greg joins in on the giggling, and Sherlock wonders what’s so damn funny.

____________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Sorry mate, it’s just… I don’t know. But hey, even if you’re right, it’s not the end of the world.”

____________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Sherlock furrows his brows. What’s not the end of the world? Clearly John is concerned about something. Something serious, that he still can’t help laughing at. Or maybe that’s just the alcohol laughing. If Sherlock hadn’t been to straved on data on John, he probably wouldn’t have cared, but he finds himself _dying _to find out what John has to say. A noise that sounds like someone sighing is heard.__

______________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“I know, and look, it’s not like I’m worried or anything. This is all just… new to me, y’know. I hadn’t even considered the possibility but after _that _I’m kind of starting to rethink my entire life”, John says, and takes a deep breath. “Hell, I want to blame it on the alcohol, but I’m barely drunk!”__

________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

More data. It’s obvious that John and Greg indeed have been out with the intentions to drink, however something must’ve happened to John during the night. Something only describable as life changing. Interesting. As someone who hates “going out” it’s hard to imagine what the incident could’ve been, but thankfully, John provides him with the answer only seconds later.

________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“It just felt right to kiss him.”, John says and Sherlock’s heart skips a beat as a million questions begin to form in his head. _Him? _Who is _he _? Why did John kiss him? What’s his relationship with the person? Could this mean that Sherlock might actually have some kind of chance with John?____

___________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Sherlock listens closely as Greg tries to talk some sense into his friend, mentioning that John should sleep on the matter and simply think all of this through tomorrow. If Sherlock’s deductions are correct, there are two possible scenarios. John is either worried that the person he kissed won't feel the same, or he has just had his first experience with a man which has left him perplexed. 

___________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“But I’m not gay.”, John says in what almost sounds like despair. Sherlock nods, pleased with himself. That confirms the latter theory.

___________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Everything goes quiet for what feels like an eternity. Greg doesn’t say anything until John seems to get himself together. 

___________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Jesus, Greg. I can’t be gay! I just can’t. I mean, I have a girlfriend, for fuck’s sake!”

___________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Sherlock’s heart sinks. Why would he think John was single? Of course someone as amazing as John would have a partner. Of course. 

___________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Greg sighs. “You do know that bisexuality is a thing, right?”

___________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Of course! And I'm not… I’m… Fuck. Actually, that makes sense, doesn't it? Me. Being bisexual. Fuck.” The last “fuck” comes out as barely a whisper. Maybe it’s the sound of absolute realization. The moment when all pieces fall into place. 

___________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

The men appear to stay quiet for a few seconds, but the silence is soon disturbed by a ringtone way too cheery to be coming from Sherlock’s phone that is heard throughout the flat. John curses. 

___________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“It’s Mary! Why is she calling me at this hour?”

___________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Mary? Who the hell is Mary? Sherlock needs to know, but at the same time, a part of him hopes that he'll never find out. Maybe Mary is no one. She probably doesn't even matter that much to John. Just an acquaintance of his. Sherlock knows he's wrong.

___________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Christ, John! Don't pick up! Not when you’re like this.”, Greg hisses, almost as if he thinks Mary is going to hear him otherwise. “What does she want from you at this hour?”

___________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Well, it’s Mary, so are you really that surprised?”, John shoots back, and makes a distressed noise, which is followed by a muffled groan coming from Greg.

___________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Um, hey Mary. What’s up?”

___________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

It’s understandable that John doesn’t sound too excited when he picks up. His voice sounds as if it’s on the verge of shaking. The man must be panicking, and Mary notices. 

___________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“What are you on about? I’m fine!”, John half yells, clearly not feeling fine, and a pause follows before John fires back again. “That’s not true! Mary, we went out last week. I do want to spend some time with my friends as well, you know.” A pause follows and John hums a little as Mary talks. 

___________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Please, Mary. Just listen to me. I love you!”, he all of a sudden yells. 

___________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Whatever Mary’s response is, it’s not any good. John desperately grumbles “no” a couple of times before he goes silent.

___________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“So?”, Greg asks, his voice stern and disappointed. 

___________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

John sighs and Sherlock can hear him moving around in the flat. “Well, she hung up”

___________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Yeah, the two of you have been dating for a couple of weeks and the first time you tell her you love her is on the phone. It’s not _that _surprising, John.”__

_____________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

At this point, Sherlock almost feels invasive listening to this. How the hell is he supposed to look John in the eyes after hearing this? Since John moved in he’s proven to be the type of guy to force “neighbourly conversations” when meeting in the hallway. Sherlock can only imagine trying to have one of those conversations now. _Hey Sherlock, how are you? Oh, I’m great John, and how’s your life now that your relationship is falling apart? _Sherlock almost gets up from the very uncomfortable half-sitting-half-lying-on-the-floor position that he’s in. The only thing stopping him from doing so is what John says next.__

_______________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“I’ve really fucked up now, haven’t I? Greg, I was planning to break up with her! I can’t just do that after saying something like that. I’d look like the biggest arsehole ever!”

_______________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Is it wrong to hope that the man you’re in love with’s relationship doesn’t work out? Maybe it is, but Sherlock can’t possibly care less. After some hesitation, Sherlock presses his ear tightly against the floor again, and suddenly, like a gift from above, the conversation begins steering in a direction that could be in Sherlock’s favor. 

_______________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Hang on”, Greg says. “You were planning to break up with her? Why?”

_______________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Really? You heard the conversation. She’s a control freak. And, um, look. I think there’s someone else. A guy.”

_______________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Greg makes a noise that says _go on _.__

_________________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Yeah. I wasn’t really convinced that it was a crush because, you know, I didn’t even know I liked guys, but fuck, after tonight I’m convinced.”

_________________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

John doesn’t get to finish that sentence before a deafening blast is heard. The sound takes Sherlock by complete surprise, and in his state of confusion the source of the noise is inexplicable. Then he realizes. The experiment! He’d completely forgotten about it. Leaving burning chemicals unattended is apparently not a very good idea, and when he looks up and into the kitchen, the tablecloth is on fire. With an “Oh god!” that’s perhaps a little bit too loud for when it’s 3 AM and you’ve been eavesdropping on your neighbour’s conversations about his love life, Sherlock launches himself back up on his feet and bursts into the kitchen. Being too occupied with finding the fire extinguisher he keeps in the cupboard under the sink, Sherlock doesn’t even hear John’s worried “What the hell was that?”.

_________________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

As Sherlock is putting out the fire, all that is heard from John’s flat are loud and rather concerned voices. John yells about his fear of being overheard. As if that would matter, Sherlock thinks. Greg fires back with “How can you _possibly _think about that when there’s been a huge fucking explosion in your neighbors flat?”. The bickering quickly dies down and Sherlock can no longer hear their voices anymore. It almost feels a bit disappointing. When the fire finally is extinguished, it all of a sudden doesn’t feel very interesting to carry on with the experiment. This massive dump of information that has been thrown at Sherlock over the last five minutes is simply arduous to take in, so instead Sherlock finds himself sitting on a chair, head in his hands desperately trying to process this mess.__

___________________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Process what? The fact that his kitchen almost caught on fire? No, he’s used to that. What Sherlock really needs to process is John. John and everything John has said tonight. It’s too much to take in. John has made out with a man. John has a crush on a man. John likes men. _John likes me? _Sherlock has to stop for a moment. That last thought has no logical reasoning to back it up. The thought is brushed away.__

_____________________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

The kitchen table is a state of absolute chaos. Foam from the fire extinguisher covers the table like a thin layer of snow, half-burnt pieces of paper are lying scattered all over the kitchen and the smell, the smell is awful. The odor of chemicals that have been on fire for way too long is filling up the flat, making every breath feel like you’re directly inhaling poison. God, Sherlock really needs to open up a window to get some airflow in here. As he gets up, a harsh knocking on his door is heard. Sherlock knows exactly who’s standing behind that door, and he hates himself for not resisting the temptation to open it. 

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So he opens the door, and finds a John Watson standing there, looking like a god with his stupid blonde hair and stupid smile that makes Sherlock’s stomach do tiny little flips. John looks amazing. He is amazing. And Sherlock is opening the door for him, dressed in what’s definitely not his best outfit. 

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It’s embarrassing, really embarrassing to stand in front of John Watson looking like this. It’s their first proper meeting since that night a couple of weeks ago, and Sherlock is standing here, in his dressing gown, which sleeves are now wet from the extinguisher foam, a pair of boxers, and as if that wasn’t enough, his ever so charming safety goggles that are strapped tightly to his face. Christ, he probably looks like some kind of mad scientist, which, to be fair, wouldn’t be too far from away the truth, but John doesn’t need to know that.

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“Hey”, is all John says and eyes him up and down. Not in a judging manner but more in what could possibly be a concerned way. 

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Sherlock is proud of the shaky “Hello”, that he manages to squeeze out. 

_____________________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“So. We heard a… Actually, Sherlock, I’m not quite sure what we heard, but we did hear something.” John says and scratches his neck in distress. 

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Light stomps that can only come from someone running up the staircase are heard, and soon a man that looks about the same age as John appears in the doorway. He runs a hand through his dark hair and looks at Sherlock with tired eyes that somehow still seem alert. John doesn’t question the man’s presence, so Sherlock assumes this must be Greg. 

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“Hey! Yeah, we were just checking up on you. That noise did sound rather worrying.”, Greg says, a little out of breath after hurrying up the stairs to Sherlock’s flat, and peeks into the sitting room. “It looks fine in here though. What happened?”

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Sherlock really doesn’t know how to begin, because even he knows that _“Well, you see, I was conducting this evidently dangerous experiment, which I then left unattended to eavesdrop on your conversation and all of a sudden everything exploded. Oh yeah! I heard everything you guys said. How’s that mental breakdown going, John?” _, isn’t by any means a socially acceptable answer. Jesus. He’d sound like a complete maniac.__

_______________________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Um. I was… Er, well, I’m somewhat of a scientist.”, Sherlock begins. “And I was conducting an experiment. That exploded.”

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Greg squints at him, and Sherlock can almost hear the “What the _fuck _” going through his head. A tiny frown appears on his forehead for a second, and he takes another look into the flat. His nose scrunches, and he opens his mouth to say something. John, however, beats him to it.__

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“What kind of experiment even was that? Sorry, but it does _not _smell good in here.”__

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He’s not wrong. Even though the smell has began to disperse it lingers subtly in the air, and when a waft of air that makes Sherlock’s nose tickle hits him, he’s reminded of the fact that a window needs to be opened. With a “just a moment” to John and Greg, Sherlock strides across the room to finally get some fresh air into the flat. Somehow though, the two men at his door takes this as an invitation to step inside and take a good look around the flat, which makes sense, because 221B truly is a lot. There’s stuff in every corner of the flat. Stuff that ranges from the most ordinary things like coffee cups and books to human skulls and crime scene evidence that Sherlock really shouldn’t be keeping. And then there’s the kitchen. The kitchen hasn’t been touched since the fire was put out, and the table is now overflowing with extinguisher foam that’s slowly starting to drip down on the floor. Sherlock notices how John’s eyes lock on it.

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“There was a fire?”, John asks as he moves further into the kitchen. He picks up a wet piece of paper, looks at it, puts it back down. “Do you need help cleaning this up?”

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Sherlock swallows. Some help would indeed be nice, because there’s not a chance in hell that he’s going to let the flat look like this when Mrs Hudson comes up with his tea the next morning. It’s a wonder that the explosion didn’t wake her up too. Sherlock doesn’t even dare thinking about the chaos that would’ve erupted if his usually sweet, but also very protective, landlady would’ve gotten the opportunity to say something about this.

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“Oh, well, yes, if it’s not too much of a trouble”, Sherlock says and holds John’s gaze for just a fraction of a second before switching his focus to the kitchen table. Anything to hide just the slightest tint of pink that may be appearing on his cheeks. 

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It all starts off kind of awkward, as any social situation between strangers would, with most conversation consisting of simple and necessary lines such as “Can you hand me a towel?” followed by a “Here you go” and “Thanks”, but as soon Greg picks up a bunsen burner that reminds him of a funny anecdote from his lab classes in school, the awkwardness seems to perish out of the window along with the other suffocating substances in the air. It really isn’t that bad, and to his own surprise, Sherlock finds himself laughing hysterically at Greg’s way too over exaggerated movements as he tells the story. 

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“Come on Sherlock, you if anyone must have some pretty bizarre stories. I mean, you almost blew up your entire kitchen and you’re acting as if it’s nothing!”, John laughs after Greg is finished with his story, and gestures to the now somewhat smaller kitchen mess. 

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Sherlock chuckles, because John is right, and it almost feels as though John is someone that knows him for real. So he thinks for a while, carefully choosing a story that’s going to make John laugh and Sherlock’s stomach flutter. Finally, he finds the perfect anecdote and can begin telling the dramatic story of the time he, on complete accident, blew a hole through a table during one of his chemistry lessons in sixth form. To Sherlock’s great pleasure, John and Greg seem unable to stop laughing as Sherlock describes the horrifying look on his former professor’s face, and as Sherlock talks, a sudden warmth has slowly began spreading all throughout his body.

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Mrs Hudson always complains about how lonely he is and constantly suggest that he should try to make some friends - a suggestion that up until this point had been brushed off as nonsense. Maybe that wasn’t horrible advice after all. As long as he can remember, Sherlock has almost found a strange sort of pride in being lonely. Not because it’s especially nice to always be on your own, but rather because of the, perhaps, false impression it gives of being an individualist, someone who doesn’t have to rely on others and can do just fine on their own. Not necessarily a bad quality, but Sherlock knows, deep inside, that he _is _missing something in his life. At least he does now, because laughing with John and Greg and just being able to talk with them about the most ridiculous things is something new. A new, and good thing that raises a vital question. Is this what he’s been missing all his life? All those years of wanting to believe that maybe he was just too good and too clever for boring friendships, that just gets in the way anyway, and now he finds himself here, in his kitchen at 3 AM, laughing with some slightly drunk men and having the _time of his life _.____

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It doesn’t feel like defeat. Maybe it should, because this terribly pedestrian activity should be the last thing he wants. But it’s not. Sherlock already misses this. He knows that when John and Greg leave, they leave for good. They’re not actually friends, regardless of how much Sherlock wishes that to be the case. John and Greg are just nice. Of course they’d help him, but does it mean anything? No. These aren’t exactly circumstances for making friends. To John and Greg it’s a “You need help and I happened to be here” kind of thing. Like any social situation, the small talk is necessary to make everyone feel somewhat comfortable. 

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Everything eventually comes to an end, and that includes this. With the help of two people, the kitchen is soon restored. The rug is still a bit damp, but right now nothing more can be done. It just needs a few hours to dry. Sherlock sighs quietly. John and Greg will be leaving at any moment. Damn it. Would it be strange to offer some tea? Maybe not. In a desperate attempt to come up with quite literally _any _excuse to make them stay, Sherlock makes a mental list of possibilities including everything in between casual tea time and faking a heart attack and becoming in an acute need of CPR. Sherlock’s train of thought is brutally stopped as a musical theme Sherlock recognizes from somewhere rings out through the flat. He’s heard it before and… and… oh! John is reaching for his phone. That’s it. It’s _that _melody. John picks up, and Sherlock can swear his entire body is drained from all color the second he starts speaking.____

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“Mary? Thank God you’re calling me back. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean…”, John begins, but is rapidly cut off. 

There’s something about John’s expression that makes it impossible for Sherlock to look away. His brows are furrowed, which could be out of stress since his relationship is in fact falling apart, but no, it’s not that. The way John keeps rubbing his face, tapping his index finger on the table and rolling his eyes say something else. If only he could hear what the conversation was about. Apparently he must be looking terribly confused, because as soon as Sherlock manages to turn his gaze away from John, Greg meets his eyes and immediately begins explaining the situation. 

“That’s Mary, John’s girlfriend. Or at least I think she still is.”, he whispers. “They got together a few weeks ago, but it’s just been horrible.”

Both of them glance over at John, who appears to be in the middle of an argument now, and here is where Sherlock makes his grand mistake. Shaken by the explosion and everything that followed, whatever happened before that and the secrecy of what he did has been pressed into the very back of his mind. Just as the argument with Mary ends and someone hangs up he says what might just be the absolute worst thing that he could possibly have said. He mindlessly looks over at Greg, and answers absently. 

“Mm. I know.”

Greg just blinks, completely taken aback. Tries to say something. Fails. John undoubtedly notices that something’s up, eyes panicking. 

“Knows what?”, he asks innocently, seeming genuinely curious about what Sherlock might know.

With the sudden realization of what he just did crashing down on him, Sherlock feels his face go beet red. He opens his mouth to say... nothing, because how the _hell _do you reply to that? Fortunately, or unfortunately - Sherlock can’t tell anymore - Greg is faster than him.__

“Hey, John. Um. I think we should…”, he begins, but pauses. Looking for the right words, seemingly in just as much agony as Sherlock. 

Suddenly, Sherlock is hit by a realization. He could confess, couldn’t he? After all he just happened to overhear the conversation. A conversation he has nothing to do with and shouldn’t have heard, yes, but also a conversation which he technically wouldn’t have any use for. John and Greg _were _quite loud, so maybe… maybe if…__

“I overheard you”, Sherlock says, refusing to look at Greg and John. “I was awake doing my little experiment and I heard you talking through the floor.”

When he looks up, John appears paler than ever before. He’s staring at Sherlock, wide eyed and is biting his lower lip. Sherlock doesn’t understand. What did he do wrong? There’s no reason for John to panic, and yet he’s looking at Sherlock like that. 

“It’s really no big deal. I didn’t even hear the entire conversation.”, Sherlock tries, even though it’s not true. Anything to get that expression off of John’s lovely face.

The situation is a mess. A big mess, and Sherlock is lacking whatever tool that is needed to understand how it ended up like this. If only he hadn’t left his experiment unattended! An opportunity to talk to John really isn’t worth this. Couldn’t he just have worked up the bloody courage needed to just talk to John in the hallway instead? Sherlock eyes his surroundings. There’s John, standing by the table, looking as though his deepest and darkest secret has been revealed, Greg right beside him with his his mouth open, watching everything unfold, and Sherlock himself? He’s baffled. Purely baffled at how all of this could happen. 

Greg catches John’s eye, and they just stare at each other. With wide eyes and a nod towards Sherlock, Greg manages to get some sort of message through to John. It’s as if the man is telling his friend to say something. Do something about this situation. John clears his throat. Stays quiet. Clears his throat again, and this time he looks at Sherlock, right in the eyes, and Sherlock finds himself too mesmerized to look away. 

“How… how much did you hear, Sherlock? Because I know you’re like, brilliant. Really brilliant. You know stuff by just looking.”, John asks slowly, clearly choosing his word very carefully. He swallows before he continues. “Or hearing.”

The praise sends a beam of warmth through Sherlock’, and a tiny _oh _escapes him. John’s mouth is forced into a narrow line - a smile that barely reaches his eyes, and Sherlock panics, once again. To lie or not lie, that is the question, because it’s starting to get painfully clear that John wishes that Sherlock wouldn’t have heard the conversation.__

“Not all of it. Parts. I wasn’t actively listening, so all of it didn’t come through”, he lies unconvincingly, rushing through the sentence in panic. 

“But you know about Mary, so you must’ve heard the phone call.”, John states. “Actually, you must’ve heard the entire call if you know all of that, and if you heard _that _…”__

Heard what? There’s a possibility that John means _that _thing. The thing that Sherlock barely dares to think about because he knows he’ll get his hopes up. He’ll be stupid and let himself think that maybe, just maybe John meant him and that this could just be leading up to some sort of… Some sort of what? Love confession? Cheesy romances might just be one of the most atrocious things on this earth and here he is, hoping to be living inside a resemblance of one.__

John’s penetrating gaze is enough to blast Sherlock back to reality. He’s expecting an answer. The mere thought of what John may or may not say is enough for Sherlock to stay silent. Slowly his head nods. He did hear what John said. 

A single _shit _can be heard from John.__

Sherlock needs to save the situation. Right now. 

“John, you should know that I don’t care about your sexual preferences. Do I really look like your average homophobic heterosexual man?”

At this, John chuckles, and Sherlock feels how the knot in his stomach unties itself slightly.

“Sherlock?”, John basically pleads as his face hardens again. “Don’t you see? Don’t you get it?”

Maybe Sherlock does get it, but what’s the point of making a fool out of yourself if it turns out you’re really just wrong in the end? He’s already taken too many risks tonight. John is waiting for a response that never comes. He shakes his head.

“Christ. Sherlock, you’re the most clever person I know. Have you not figured it out?”, John asks, and Sherlock bites his lip in frustration, because John isn’t wrong. Why can’t he just be sure of what John means? Actually, that’s not even the problem. Sherlock knows what John means, or at least he know what it _should _mean, but there’s always the risk that he’s wrong, and if he is, it could mean that everything, all of this, could come to an end way too soon.__

“I don’t… I’m not good at this, John. You know I can deduce that you’ve been walking through Hyde Park on your way back home based on the dirt on your shoes and the vegetation on your jacket and, but this? I can’t. Not with you.”

John’s furrows his brow. 

“Not with me?”, he asks softly. “Just me?”

Sherlock forces out a “yes” in response. 

“Alright. Alright, so you could deduce Greg? Can you deduce how Greg… How Greg feels about you?”

Immediately, Sherlock is taken aback, and when he looks over at Greg, who’s spent the last couple of minutes awkwardly shifting his focus between John, Sherlock and a large pile of dishes on the kitchen counter, the man has opened his mouth as if to say something, but is cut off before he’s even had to opportunity to utter a word. 

“ _Greg _? Of course I know. Why would he feel that way about me? He keeps things at a friendly level. No touching or eye contact that lingers too long, pupils aren’t dilated, doesn’t stare at me when he believes I’m not looking. I could go on.”__

“And what about me?”, John asks quietly, but not weakly. He’s determined.

“I’m sorry?”, Sherlock breathes, barely able to process what’s going on. They’re really doing this, aren’t they?. If John is trying to make him say what Sherlock think John is trying to make him say then this is… good? _Really _good, actually. Shit.__

“You know, deduce me. Like you deduced Greg.”

Deduce him. Alright. It’s not like he’s done it before, but running over the facts again can’t do any harm - in case he’s wrong. In case he missed something.

Greg is friendly, but it stops there. He has never shown any sign of interest in Sherlock - that’s obvious, but John? The way he looks at Sherlock sometimes can’t be just friendly. He stares, there’s no denying in it. John does what Greg does not. He stares in a way that just friends don’t stare at each other, gives too many pats on the shoulder, and maybe, just maybe waits a bit too long before letting go of the towel he’s just handed Sherlock. 

It would make sense. The deductions suggest it, and Sherlock knows he’s not dumb. He’s a detective for a reason. His methods work. 

When Sherlock meets John’s eyes, he sees what settles it. The final nail in the coffin. John’s pupils are dilated as his eyes focus intensely on Sherlock. Dilated pupils. A sign of mydrais, drug usage, concussion, but also _attraction _. When Sherlock dares to meet John’s gaze he nods, as if pleading him to say something.__

So Sherlock says what must be it.

“You… _like _me?”, he technically states, but it comes out as more of a question.__

John smiles. A sign of relief? Happiness? Secondhand embarrassment? It’s absolutely illegible. Reading John should be easy, and yet here he is, trembling with anxiety because he can’t. With John, even the most obvious things become puzzles - mysteries to solve, and Sherlock can’t figure them out. He wishes he could get involved so badly, but maybe it’s this that’s stopping him? The lack of control. The amount of caring he is actually capable of. In the middle of his absolute state of bewilderment, John opens his mouth to utter the simplest, but most important word that has been spoken tonight. 

“Yeah.”

Time stops. 

Sherlock can’t stop staring. Can’t tear his gaze away from John. _Yeah _. He was right. All this time, going back and forth thinking "what if", brushing it away, thinking "I’m wrong", and yet here he is. And he’s right. John likes him. A rush of total euphoria runs through his body. John likes him! Suddenly, every doubt, every second of overthinking feels absolutely pointless. A waste of time. John. Likes. Him. It really is that simple.__

“So…?”, John begins, and Sherlock becomes shockingly aware of how long he’s been quiet. “I was sort of hoping you’d maybe… I don’t know.”

This time Sherlock gets it. He knows what John wants him to say and, Sherlock couldn’t be happier to say it. 

“Me too. I mean, I like you.”, he says and John blinks at him as if he can’t believe what Sherlock just said, and a large, genuine smile appears on his face - a smile that Sherlock swears could melt glaciers. 

It’s too late when Sherlock realizes that there are tears in his eyes, because John has already noticed. He doesn’t say anything, just gives Sherlock a reassuring smile and pulls him close. Sherlock is too overwhelmed to even move at first, but soon he finds himself wrapping his arms arounds John’s warm body, feeling safe. Calm and secure, like he belongs there. 

Suddenly, a loud sigh is heard from the other side of the room. 

“God, you two sound like preschoolers, but I’m happy for you.”, Greg, who’s been silent for so long, finally says. “You really are ridiculous. Congrats though.”

John just laughs, and Sherlock finds himself letting out a muffled rumble of laughter, as he refuses to unbury his face from John’s chest. They _are _ridiculous, Sherlock can’t deny it. They’re absolute idiots! But for the first time in forever, Sherlock doesn’t mind being an idiot.__

It probably takes a solid minute before either of them actually decides to let go, and even if the embrace is over, John doesn’t entirely let go, letting his hand rest comfortably on Sherlock’s shoulder. As a matter of fact, it feels natural, as if this is how it’s supposed to be, and Sherlock finds himself leaning into the touch. It’s outright preposterous to think that this seemingly disastrous night would lead up to this, and Sherlock can admit that with this beginning, who knows how it’ll progress in the future. Something he does know though, is that whatever the future holds for him, he’s not afraid of it anymore. 

At precisely 4:01 AM, Sherlock hears a man exit his flat. Alone. As he’s about to leave, the man rolls his eyes playfully at the sofa where his two friends are tangled up together, completely absorbed with one another and barely capable of paying attention to the third wheel, just scarcely managing to lift a hand and utter a short “Bye, Greg”. Greg laughs, and is suddenly filled with pure happiness and pride for both of the men he just left, but perhaps for John especially - the lucky bastard, who’s life changed over the course of just a couple of hours. Greg chuckles to himself as he, with a light step, makes his way down the staircase, unable to stop grinning.


End file.
